


Dive

by andtheheir



Series: Gills [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, University, bottom ushijima
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 17:29:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8336518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andtheheir/pseuds/andtheheir
Summary: They end their third season with only two losses and take regionals with ease. They win their last match in three sets, and then Oikawa really notices it, really understands the hints that Ushijima has been dropping in the way he presses his nose to the back of Oikawa’s neck when they’re alone. He finally pinpoints what he’s been sensing in the way Ushijima speaks to him, touches him: reverence. (Or, an excuse for me to write bottom Ushijima.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I swore off of writing fanfiction after Still Waters Run Deep, but it came to my attention that there are hardly any Ushioi fics with bottom Ushijima... so here's this.
> 
> For the complete backstory to this fic, please read Still Waters Run Deep (the first part of this series). If you're just here for bottom Ushijima, it's not necessary, but this will make a lot more sense if you read it.
> 
> Thanks always to sarahxsmile for proofing my madness.
> 
> Enjoy!

Ushijima becomes a constant in Oikawa’s life.

In their first year at university, Oikawa had expected this, though in an entirely different way than it had happened. After the first time he saw Ushijima in the bar with a drink in his right hand, he had expected Ushijima in his shadow, just outside his dorm room window, on the opposite side of intersections. He expected Ushijima as an imposing constant, a promise of anxiety, a reminder of his own short-comings and his self-destructive habits.

But then they kissed in locker rooms and Ushijima dropped to his knees in a bar bathroom and Oikawa smelled Ushijima’s bedsheets for weeks and—Oikawa realized that he could swim in the waters in which he had always drowned.

They fly to nationals that first year and rank third; Oikawa tosses to Ushijima at match point and Ushijima buries his face between Oikawa’s thighs in their hotel room.

In their second year, they continue their one-on-one practices without prompting and Oikawa stops looking before he tosses to Ushijima. He relies on him to be there, and Ushijima always is. 

Neither of them talk about it, but neither of them like their new captain, and they only place second at regionals. They leave the locker room separately after the match, Oikawa first, then Ushijima.

(Neither of them likes to lose.)

Oikawa stays on campus that summer for an internship; he catches sight of Ushijima in a coffee shop window on a quiet and breezy Wednesday morning, with a thick text book open on the table in front of him and large round-lens glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Oikawa stops on the empty sidewalk and the bass drum pounds in his headphones when Ushijima meets his eye. They both stare for a little too long.

(That night is abnormally chilly and Ushijima unzips Oikawa’s track jacket in his studio apartment; his breath is warm as he murmurs in Oikawa’s ear, “I’ve been thinking about kissing you all over.” It sticks in Oikawa’s head for weeks, like his favorite song.)

It’s now their third year and Oikawa is vice-captain—their third year and he notices, among other things, when Ushijima isn’t at his side.

It’s their third year and, two drinks into their season kick-off party, Ushijima stands too close and, when he’s sure no one can see, begins to play with the fingers of Oikawa’s hand.

(Oikawa’s heart pounds in his ears, louder than the music that booms through speakers too small to handle it.)

It’s that same night when Ushijima’s apartment walls spin around them and Ushijima pushes Oikawa down onto his bed only to kneel on the floor, to pluck the laces of Oikawa’s boots undone far too deftly for someone who is six drinks down. Oikawa feels Ushijima’s comforter slowly deflate beneath his back and he breathes in deeply, smelling the pine that throws him back into that first night a year in a half ago. The ceiling above him moves so he lays an arm over his eyes, exhales a breath that tastes like beer and Ushijima’s chapstick. He begins to tremble as Ushijima rolls up the legs of his pants to kiss all over his calves.

(Oikawa later finds out that Ushijima likes having his hair pulled.)

Their regular season progresses much more smoothly than the prior year, even with Ushijima’s habit of offering his unsolicited opinion to Oikawa’s vice-captain matters. Oikawa rolls his eyes to this for months before he realizes that Ushijima is often reinforcing him—and then he begins to low-key consult Ushijima on the important matters, like the team’s starting line-up, and what to do about their cut finances.

Most significantly, Oikawa no longer withholds tosses from Ushijima, and Ushijima no longer questions it when Oikawa doesn’t toss to him.

(Therefore, most of the fight and confrontation in the way Ushijima touches him is gone.)

They end their season with only two losses and take regionals with ease. They win their last match in three sets, and then Oikawa really notices it, really understands the hints that Ushijima has been dropping in the way he presses his nose to the back of Oikawa’s neck when they’re alone. He finally pinpoints what he’s been sensing in the way Ushijima speaks to him, touches him: reverence. 

He realizes it when he’s in the middle of an abnormally long and late shower, just before Ushijima joins him in the locker room stall. 

“I think he wants me to fuck him,” Oikawa tells Iwaizumi the week before his team leaves for nationals, over their half-eaten party platter of sushi. Oikawa clacks the tips of his chopsticks together before he uses them to lift a slice of ginger. “At least.”

“At least is right. I could have told you that,” Iwaizumi says, unamused and with one cheek full of sashimi. “I saw the way he watched you at regionals. He’ll do anything you want him to do, he would jump off a bridge if you told him to.”

Iwaizumi, having finished his semester finals, is visiting for a few days before he goes back to campus for interim education courses.

Oikawa scoffs, eyes fixed on the ginger. “He’s changed, but not that much.”

“I think it’s you who’s changed.”

Oikawa lifts his gaze and eyes Iwaizumi from over the rims of his glasses. He cocks an eyebrow. “You think he would have jumped off a bridge if I told him to a year ago?”

“That’s not exactly what I mean,” Iwaizumi says and tilts his head as he takes the roll that Oikawa has prepared with the ginger. Behind him, a bubble tank glows, softening from pink to purple to blue, illuminating the dark and calm atmosphere of the sushi bar. Oikawa likes the way it shines off of the sake bottle between them. “But now I think he knows that you wouldn’t tell him to jump off a bridge out of spite. I think he knows that if you told him to jump off a bridge, you would either find a way to save him, or jump after he did.”

Iwaizumi looks Oikawa in the eye and eats his sushi roll; Oikawa is too speechless to reprimand him. 

“Hey,” Iwaizumi says when his silence lasts an uncomfortable amount of time. Iwaizumi’s voice softens, and now Oikawa would never hope to interrupt him. “I’m proud of you. You really made the best a shitty situation, and. I don’t know, you’re a lot better for it.” He averts his gaze to something just past Oikawa’s head and the colored lights glow in his eyes.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, using overdramatic feeling to hide the way Iwaizumi’s words swell in his chest.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi snaps this time, indignant, and kicks Oikawa’s shin beneath the table. “Don’t ruin this with that fake voice, I mean it. You really conquered.”

Oikawa bites his lower lip to try to qualm his smile. It doesn’t quite work and he looks down, busies himself with setting small piles of wasabi onto another sushi roll. He knows Iwaizumi is right, but he had never thought of it in such a way.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

“And by the way,” Iwaizumi continues, back to the unamused tone in his voice, “when I asked how your quote boyfriend was doing, I didn’t ask for a play-by-play of your sex life.”

“That was hardly a play-by-play,” Oikawa complains and glances back up at Iwaizumi, the roll caught between his chopsticks. Iwaizumi takes a long sip of his sake and his throat works around it. “And that’s what you get for calling him my boyfriend, you know he’s not.”

“Then what is he?” Iwaizumi asks, close to the lip of his cup. It’s his turn to cock an eyebrow. “Your friend with benefits? Your booty call?”

“He’s my teammate, my spiker,” Oikawa says firmly, though he knows there’s truth in Iwaizumi’s words.

“We never fucked when I was your spiker,” Iwaizumi says to prove a point, and cuts off Oikawa when he opens his mouth to counter. “You don’t fuck your teammates, not usually. And I’m not saying you have to figure it out, because obviously this isn’t a normal situation—you’ve had your coping mechanisms. But it’s worth a thought.

“I take it back,” Iwaizumi concludes and picks out another sashimi piece, “you have changed a lot. Your taste in men has taken a turn for the worse.”

This time Oikawa kicks Iwaizumi beneath the table and Iwaizumi laughs.

The next week, their team takes a connecting flight to nationals. Oikawa thinks only of Iwaizumi’s words when Ushijima shares the arm rest between them and pretends to sleep as the sides of their hands brush. He stares out the window at the blanket of clouds beneath them, thinks they look much like Ushijima’s bedsheets, and steals one glance at Ushijima while he’s sleeping—the slope between his jaw and his neck and the way it elongates with the angle of his head. Again, he stares for too long, and concludes that it’s not any easier to think when he’s 9,000 meters above the ground.

(Ushijima wakes up just in time to order a coffee from the flight attendant; he denies cream, sugar, and a snack, and only breaks the contact of their hands to open his tray table.)

Their team occupies the entire tenth floor of the hotel. They arrive just before the sun sets on the day before the tournament, and the lobby is packed with groups of a similar size, all adorned in warm up jackets of different colors and matching duffel bags. Their collective footsteps echo on the tile flooring, the chandelier above them shines spots across the tall and pillar-lined walls, and Oikawa inhales the mixed scent of air freshener and the nearby pool. Nostalgia settles deep inside him. His heart rate elevates with anticipation and he can hardly believe that they missed out on this last year—he has only been here once before, but this is where he’s at his peak.

He vows to never miss out on this again.

Their captain and coach approach the lobby desk to check in, leaving him with their team and with Ushijima still at his side. Ushijima looks around at the other teams as well, meeting the gazes that they all throw his way, but not reacting to them.

Oikawa knows that he and Ushijima have made names for themselves and it only makes his heart beat faster.

Their captain gives him his room key and says that he and Ushijima are sharing 1014.

Oikawa drops his bag on the bed closest to the window to claim it, not that it matters.

After a large dinner full of protein, the coaches go back to their room with a warning not to stay up too late. So most of the team, including the minors, elect to go to the bar just down the street, “just for a quick night cap”. Oikawa declines the offering without thinking too much of it until Ushijima declines as well. The team doesn’t seem too surprised as they wave them off and leave them outside the revolving door of the hotel lobby. Oikawa’s breath clouds in front of his mouth and, once their team is out of hearing range, Ushijima admits quietly, “A night cap would be nice.”

(For some reason, it makes Oikawa scoff a laugh.)

They each pick up a drink from the hotel bar (an Irish coffee for Oikawa and a straight glass of whiskey for Ushijima), and take the mirrored elevator up to their floor.

“You’ll be up all night with that,” Ushijima comments as Oikawa eyes his own reflection in the elevator wall. 

“At least I don’t have the drink of a fifty year old rich man,” he says blandly. “And I’ll be fine. Caffeine hardly affects me anymore.”

Ushijima meets his gaze in the mirror and the elevator dings.

“Are you anxious?” Ushijima asks once their room door closes behind them. The room is dark; before sunset, the window light had been enough. But now the room is black and street lights of orange, red, and blue glow in small spots from outside the window. The moon thins the blackness of the sky, but offers little help in lighting the room. All Oikawa can really see is the dark outline of his bag against the distant nightscape, so he’s guessing when he tries to throw their card key onto the desk near the door.

“You know me better than that by now,” he says and toes out of his shoes, balancing his drink in one hand as he does. “This is what I live for.”

“You’ve been smiling like you do when you’re nervous,” Ushijima says and moves past Oikawa towards the windowsill. He sits on its ledge and looks like a black hole surrounded by the city stars.

Oikawa rolls his eyes and nurses his drink. “Stop watching me,” he says, and then continues when Ushijima doesn’t respond. “We didn’t make it here last year, and we may not make it back next year. We have something to prove—so many people are expecting a lot from us, specifically you and I. And those same people want to shut us down.”

His eyes are adjusting and he can see the way Ushijima sits, with his back leaned against the left side of the window and his long legs stretched out on the sill.

“You’ll be captain next year,” he says, and Oikawa feels like he can hear his voice better. Like its ridges and tones are more noticeable when he can’t see him. “Why wouldn’t we make it back?”

In the room with silence like the bottom of a pool, Oikawa hears it—the complete faith and devotion in Ushijima’s words.

“I’ve been captain for a team that hasn’t made it to nationals,” he says. The self-doubt is habit. 

“You’re different now,” Ushijima says, and the magnitude of his phrasing is not lost on Oikawa—he says ‘you’re’ different, not ‘your team’ is different, and Oikawa knows then that they’ve both changed.

Ushijima’s silhouette moves, lifts his drink to his mouth. Oikawa finally crosses the room and sits on the edge of his bed closest to Ushijima. He can now see the colors in Ushijima, the warm tone of his cheek and the white (now yellow-gray) of his jacket. The brown of his hair, the brown of his eyes, fixed on Oikawa.

“Are you anxious?” Oikawa counters.

“No,” Ushijima says so quickly that Oikawa rolls his eyes again.

“I was nervous the first time we were here,” Ushijima says, quieter.

He says, “But this time I have no reason to be.”

(Their drinks are left unfinished on the windowsill; Ushijima’s bed is untouched for the night. When Ushijima tries to blow him, Oikawa uses his foot to push him away. He flips them to sit on Ushijima’s face, and Ushijima moans.)

Oikawa’s first toss at nationals that year goes to Ushijima, who slams it through a triple block. The stadium erupts and Ushijima high fives him with such fervor that leaves Oikawa’s palm pink. That’s all it takes for Oikawa to summon the stars into his fingertips, all it takes for him to feel that intoxicating and addicting sense of power that he feels only with Ushijima.

They win the first match in three sets. There is a text waiting on Oikawa’s phone from Iwaizumi: ‘HELL YEAH!!!! i’m watching every match in the library when i should be studying. you better not make me regret it.’

That same day, they win the second match in two sets.

(They switch to Ushijima’s bed that night—Oikawa leans over, riding Ushijima’s cock in long, slow motions as he touches Ushijima’s throat. Ushijima tilts his head so far back that he arches.)

The next morning, while he’s brushing his teeth, Ushijima tells him, “We should be more careful. We shouldn’t have sex again until the tournament is done. We could be too rough and it could affect how you play.”

Oikawa leans over and spits toothpaste in the sink, meeting Ushijima’s gaze in the mirror. Stubble lines his jaw, noticeably darker than usual. “Does that include oral?” he asks, tapping the tooth brush against the edge of the sink before he sticks it back into his mouth.

After a pause, Ushijima answers, “No.”

“Fine,” Oikawa agrees with a mouthful of toothpaste.

(When Ushijima emerges from his shower, he’s clean-shaven.)

They have three matches that day; they need all three sets to win each of them, and that guarantees them a spot in the semi-finals. After the last match, Oikawa notices more things about Ushijima—the way he pushes his fingers back through his hair when he steps off of the court, the way he uses his teeth to pull the spout of his water bottle open, the way he tilts his head just barely to the side when he’s distracted.

(No one goes out for a nightcap that night; Ushijima eats Oikawa out until he’s flushed from the tips of his ears to the tips of his toes. They’re done before 10:00, and fall asleep in Ushijima’s bed again.)

The two semi-finals matches are held early in the morning, and the finals match is held late in the afternoon.

They leave their hotel room at exactly 6:00 that morning, and Oikawa lingers in its doorway, looking over their rumpled sheets and unfinished drink glasses and Ushijima’s sweatpants folded neatly on top of his gym bag. It all looks soft and quiet, grayed in the pre-dawn light, and Oikawa can’t shake the feeling that they will be different people when they return to it all. Ushijima lets him linger, waiting patiently for him in the hallway.

They win their semi-final match, and Oikawa watches as their team throw themselves onto Ushijima after he takes their last point from the other team’s libero. He’s still, quiet among the noise around him, and he feels sharpened, clear. He’s breathing evenly, he’s thinking in straight lines, he is whole and collected.

Above all, he is certain.

From beneath the pile of their teammates, he catches sight of Ushijima’s smile, and again realizes that he’s been staring. His focus breaks when someone launches at him from behind, and he joins the celebration.

They’re not due back to the gymnasium until 3:00 that afternoon, but Oikawa is alone in the locker room by 2:00. He showers just to clear his head, and then sprawls out on one of the benches with his headphones on, comfortable in his warm-up outfit. He closes his eyes to block all distractions.

He lies there, inside of himself, and knows he’s ready.

(He notices the lack of Ushijima.)

At 2:45, his music fades out, interrupted by his ringtone. He cracks an eye open to check his caller ID, and emerges from inside of himself because it reads ‘Iwa-chan’.

“I have a complaint,” Iwaizumi says immediately.

“Iwa-chan, I’m trying to meditate,” Oikawa complains, though he’s smiling.

“I saw three perfectly good opportunities for a setter dump in that last match,” Iwaizumi says. “I miss your nasty side, where’d he go?”

Oikawa laughs. “He’s still here,” he says. “I know what three times you’re talking about—it was safer to give those tosses to spikers.”

Iwaizumi sighs. “I know you’re there to win,” he says, “but don’t forget your showmanship. You’re obnoxious and flashy by nature—that’s when you’re at your 100%.”

“Hey—!”

“You give a lot of attention to your team, but don’t forget to bring yourself up to your best, too.”

Oikawa softens. “I am at my best,” he promises quietly.

Then he says, “Iwa-chan, are you ever going to call me and not say something wise? You’re like my sixty-year-old mentor, not my best friend.”

“You need someone wise,” Iwaizumi retorts. “I know how you get—you can’t see the forest through the trees sometimes. You need an outside view.”

“Hey, how about you worry about yourself.”

Iwaizumi laughs loudly and then abruptly stops before he continues in a hushed tone, “ _You_ don’t get to say that to me.”

“Are you in the library again?”

“I’m studying.”

“Again? While talking to me?”

“Fuck off, I had to talk you down from whatever you’re feeling.”

“I’m as grounded as I can be, Iwa-chan.”

“Good. You got this.”

“I do.”

Oikawa can almost hear the way Iwaizumi smiles. He starts when he hears the locker room door open and sits up a bit, propping his weight on one elbow. He relaxes, however, when he sees it’s just Ushijima, who does not look at all surprised to see him. He lies back down and sets his headphones on his chest. 

“You’re at the top now,” Iwaizumi says, and Oikawa closes his eyes again.

(The room sounds different now.)

“Give them hell,” Iwaizumi says.

He says, “Don’t let anyone take this from you.”

“I won’t,” Oikawa says firmly, though it’s difficult to speak.

“And don’t cry either.”

“I won’t cry if you won’t.”

“Shut up. Go back to meditating—I’ll have the match on my phone,” Iwaizumi says.

“Okay.” Oikawa smiles.

“You got this,” Iwaizumi says again.

“I know.”

Iwaizumi hangs up first and Oikawa rests his phone on his chest, just beneath his headphones. He inhales deeply and keeps his eyes closed. Distantly, he hears a locker close and the rustling of clothes.

Ushijima doesn’t disturb him until he opens his eyes, squints against the fluorescent ceiling lights.

“Iwaizumi?”

“Yeah.”

He turns his head to see Ushijima sitting on the bench across from his own. He’s in full uniform now, hunched over to tie his shoes. His hair is lighter in the pale light, his part straight, and he doesn’t look at all like he’s already played a match today.

Oikawa turns his head forward again and closes his eyes. He checks himself, searches for tension in every inch of himself, but finds none. His heart beats deep and slow.

He remembers years ago, when Ushijima created white noise inside of him. But now he’s calm and composed and somehow satisfied with Ushijima’s presence. It’s strange, and he wonders if Ushijima thinks about it, about when exactly they grew so comfortable with each other, but he won’t ask.

“Hey,” Oikawa says quietly, “why were you nervous the last time we were here?”

He can feel Ushijima’s undivided attention.

“You were unpredictable,” he says simply. “I couldn’t trust you to do what we needed to win.”

“I’m still unpredictable,” Oikawa reminds him. “Are you sure you can trust me now?”

There’s a pause in the air. Then Oikawa hears the quiet shuffle of Ushijima’s sneakers against the tile floor. His heart skips a beat and he opens his eyes when Ushijima’s knees crack beside him. He finds Ushijima kneeling beside his bench, the angles of his jaw and cheekbones in dark shadows from the light above. Oikawa can smell his deodorant and hear his quiet breathing, and he tightens his hold on his cell phone.

Warmth spreads across his cheeks when Ushijima ducks to kiss him, Ushijima’s fingers tangling loosely in his still-damp hair.

“I’m sure,” Ushijima murmurs, and Oikawa feels it against his mouth.

All five sets go into overtime.

At their match point in the fifth set, sweat beads along Oikawa’s jaw and his bangs stick to his forehead; he raises his hands for the toss and, from the corner of his eye, sees the other team form a triple block in front of Ushijima. So with the flick of his wrist, he feints, nudges the ball just enough so that it falls on the other side of the net.

It hits the floor in a deafening silence, a pebble in a lake.

(Ushijima grins in the corners of his lips.)

A beat passes and the whistle blows and Oikawa does cry, not that anyone can tell once their team floods the court and surrounds him. Not that anyone cares, because at that moment, Oikawa has the world—after years of climbing mountains with bare hands and swimming oceans and reaching for the sky, the world is finally his.

There are four messages on his phone. Two from Iwaizumi, and the first reads, ‘AND NEXT, THE OLYMPICS!!!!’ The second: ‘i got yelled at for cheering in the library, you can never again say i don’t love you’. The third is from Hanamaki (‘YA BOI!!!’) and the fourth is from Matsukawa (‘O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN, WAY TO SLAY’).

(Ushijima doesn’t say a word to him until the locker room clears. “Told you,” he breathes and spreads his hand across Oikawa’s chest, pinning him to the locker. He kisses him like the first time, feverish and biting, and Oikawa lets him, only to make him moan by pulling his hair.)

(Oikawa’s lips are red during post-game interviews; Ushijima is at his side during each one.)

Oikawa has tunnel vision at their team celebration that night. The bar is loud and ringing with music and voices; Ushijima insists on buying all of Oikawa’s drinks when the captain offers. The lights are dim and Oikawa’s fingertips are still tingling, caught in the memory of hours ago. 

(He can’t stop staring at Ushijima’s fingers, which, after three drinks, tap the song’s beat into the bar counter, just out of Oikawa’s reach.)

Oikawa says a lot of things that night to a lot of people, but he forgets what he says almost immediately after he says it. He cheers when everyone around him does, he laughs when others do, but he anchors himself to the situation by using Ushijima as a plane of reference. He’s sitting at Ushijima’s side during his second drink; he’s leaning against the bar to Ushijima’s left during his third; he’s sitting on a bar stool again during his fourth, his knees bent and resting against Ushijima’s thigh as he holds a practiced conversation with the captain. 

(They all take shots and Ushijima’s throat works visibly around it.)

(At six drinks, Ushijima’s cheeks are pink when he leans into the spot lighting above the bar, and his eyes are glassy when he looks at Oikawa.)

Their team begins to disperse when it hits midnight; several of their wing spikers and middle blockers have found people with whom to spend the night before they leave early tomorrow morning.

(Their captain holds up a finger, tells Oikawa in a slurred voice that he’ll be back in a second, and wanders to the other end of the bar, where a blond is tracing the lip of his glass with an index finger.)

(Oikawa is standing again, now at Ushijima’s right side. He meets Ushijima’s gaze from the corner of his eye and Ushijima’s eyes are black, his lips are slightly parted like he’s too distracted by Oikawa to close them.)

(The bar is too loud, so Oikawa has to lean in to speak; Ushijima’s hand fits easily into his lower back and his index finger drums the beat into a crease on Oikawa’s jacket.)

“Hey,” Oikawa says quietly and closes his eyes, smelling the pine of Ushijima’s cologne above the alcohol and nicotine that sticks to the walls, “the tournament is over.”

The song stops playing and Ushijima’s finger stops drumming.

“It is,” Ushijima agrees quietly, his voice rough and close to Oikawa’s ear. 

Oikawa sets his hand in the crook of Ushijima’s elbow, fitting his fingers between the folds of his jacket sleeve. He blinks and the next song starts up; he waits only two seconds before Ushijima’s finger finds the beat. “I want to fuck,” he says, annunciating the last word as clearly as he can manage, and he grins, satisfied with the way it feels on his tongue. 

“Me too,” Ushijima says, unchanging.

“Now,” Oikawa clarifies, pressing.

“Me too,” Ushijima agrees.

Then, Oikawa adds, “ _I_ want to fuck you. I want to fuck _you_.”

The beat of Ushijima’s finger on his back falters and Oikawa’s chest swells. He laughs breathlessly, unable to help it, and he fits his hand more firmly in the crook of Ushijima’s elbow. 

“I want you to,” Ushijima murmurs, cracking and reacting and wanting in all of the ways that Oikawa wants him to be.

“Then let’s go.”

(As they leave the bar, Oikawa’s fingers tangle with Ushijima’s, though they untangle once they’re on the sidewalk and linger with small spaces between them.)

It’s only a few blocks from the bar to their hotel, but Oikawa feels every second of them, every step. The ground beneath him is uneven and the night is warmer than he expects, though his breath whitens in puffs in front of his mouth. It feels like miles are between them and their tenth floor hotel room, miles between him and feeling Ushijima’s skin, his pulse, every divot and plane of him. At intersection stoplights, he thinks of making Ushijima tremble, thinks of making him moan and stopping his breath and laying him out until he’s restless and desperate, until he can think of nothing else except what Oikawa is doing.

(Ushijima’s arm brushes against his as they walk, and Oikawa wants to tell Ushijima that he will take him apart.)

Their pace quickens as they pass through the hotel lobby. Players from other teams are sprawled on the lounge chairs and drinking complimentary cups of coffee and checking out at the front desk; many call a congratulations to Oikawa and Ushijima, many more whisper behind them. Oikawa waves, giving all of them his wealthiest smile and most sincere thanks.

(It’s thrilling, really, to pretend like he’s not about to go upstairs and hold Ushijima against the bed, hard enough to bruise.)

They’re not alone in the elevator. They push the button for the tenth floor and then lean in the corner, backs against the mirrored wall, and Oikawa feels electricity between them. Ushijima is tense and the back of his hand brushes against Oikawa’s as he watches the floor counter rise.

(Their floor comes and they excuse themselves, turning to slip out of the elevator and, just as the door closes, Ushijima takes Oikawa’s hand and pulls him to room 1014.)

The ‘Do Not Disturb’ tag falls off of their door handle when Oikawa swipes the card; Ushijima cares enough to put it back on.

This time, when Oikawa tosses the key card into the dark room, he knows it lands nowhere close to the desk.

Oikawa is too drunk for the way Ushijima’s grip on his wrist tightens, for the way Ushijima pulls him backwards, against him. Oikawa curses breathlessly and can’t be sure of which way is up until he’s pressed against Ushijima, their chests flush together and Ushijima’s hands moving, molding him out of the darkness. 

Oikawa grips Ushijima’s bicep and grounds himself, focuses. Tries to focus. It’s difficult with Ushijima’s hands moving over his jacket, under it and over his t-shirt, under that and over his skin. Ushijima’s fingers are spread and his hands are hot, familiar, reminding Oikawa that he knows him and the slope of his spine and the dimples on his lower back.

Oikawa thinks it’s his own breathing that is so loud in the darkness. He slots himself against Ushijima, fits a leg between Ushijima’s thighs, and belatedly realizes in doing so that he’s pinned Ushijima to the hotel room door.

Ushijima’s mouth finds the curve of his neck and Oikawa is already too dizzy, too warm, and this is not what he had planned.

He reaches up with one hand and grips Ushijima’s jaw tightly, a grasp that suspends Ushijima’s movements, and floods a breathless moan against his throat.

“Wait,” Oikawa breathes as he surfaces, “wait, wait.”

Ushijima does; he goes still.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, distant.

“No, not that,” Oikawa mumbles and swallows, though it’s difficult. He stares up at the ceiling and tries to make out shapes in the darkness, tries to redefine reality around him. With the reassurance, one of Ushijima’s hands moves, trailing a gentle line up Oikawa’s back. 

When Oikawa can make out where the ceiling and wall meet, he ducks his head and presses a kiss to Ushijima’s cheek. He softens his hold on Ushijima’s jaw, and Ushijima tilts his head until their cheeks are touching.

“You had me too wound up,” Oikawa murmurs and traces Ushijima’s jaw with his fingertips, feels the beginning of Ushijima’s stubble, and to the back of his neck.

“I want you like that,” Ushijima says, raw.

“I know,” Oikawa says quietly and bites Ushijima’s ear. “But that’s not how you get me tonight.”

“Okay,” Ushijima says, so quickly and so sincerely that it makes Oikawa’s head tilt.

They both stop breathing when Oikawa moves away, both listen to the steady sound of Ushijima’s jacket zipper coming undone. Oikawa can feel the alcohol, pooling hot just beneath his skin, beckoning him to close the gap between them. 

Ushijima’s body is sloped against the door and Oikawa runs his hands up his front slowly, Ushijima’s shirt bunching beneath his palms as he does. He feels over Ushijima’s ribs, his chest, collar bones, then over his shoulders, beneath his jacket. He pushes the jacket off and Ushijima shrugs, pulling his arms from the sleeves. 

Oikawa slips his hands beneath Ushijima’s shirt and Ushijima is relaxed in all of the ways he usually isn’t. His muscles are loose and his posture is slouched and his hips are cocked forward and his movements somehow drip when he helps Oikawa remove his shirt. 

Oikawa likes him like this—warm and relenting.

He takes Ushijima’s wrist and pulls him away from the door, back into the room. He maneuvers them around Ushijima’s bag that he knows is there, and leads them into the thin lighting that seeps in from the gap between the curtains. Ushijima’s shoulder glows, the curve of his jaw illuminates, and Oikawa pushes Ushijima down onto the bed with a firm hand on his chest. Ushijima falls with too much grace, then slides easily through the strip of outside light that lies across the bed until just his toes are visible.

Oikawa doesn’t know when his shoes came off.

“How drunk are you?” Oikawa asks and steps past their abandoned drinks that still adorn the windowsill. “You had at least ten drinks.” He opens the black-out blinds until all of Ushijima is visible and caught between the soft, night glow and stark shadows.

“Seven and a shot,” Ushijima corrects and lies back, arching a bit. The light seems to bend around him. “I’m light-headed, but mostly feel the warmth in my chest.”

“Asshole,” Oikawa breathes with feeling, though he’s not sure if he means it to the way Ushijima owns the light that blankets him, or to his alcohol tolerance. “I—that too and I can hardly think.”

“I know,” Ushijima says. “I bought them all.”

“By your own will,” Oikawa reminds him and kneels by the edge of the bed to untie his shoes. He’s grateful for the brief distraction; his head feels clearer when he’s not looking at Ushijima.

“You earned them,” Ushijima says quietly.

Oikawa stands again; now one of Ushijima’s knees is bent and his hand rests on his stomach and his eyes are black in the night.

The red numbers on the clock to their left read 1:01. 

(Oikawa’s head fogs again.)

He climbs onto the bed and Ushijima only reacts in the way his legs shift. His knee unbends and the other bends, positioning itself between Oikawa’s thighs once Oikawa straddles him. Oikawa presses his knees to Ushijima’s hips and shakes his head when Ushijima smooths his hands over his neck, over his shoulders.

“No,” Oikawa says quietly, firmly, and reaches up to touch one of Ushijima’s hands. He traces Ushijima’s wrist bone, then strokes over the soft skin of his inner wrist, all the while measuring Ushijima’s reaction in the light. He watches the way the line of Ushijima’s lips flattens, the way his throat tenses when he swallows. “I want to see if you can manage not to touch me, at least for now.”

He pulls Ushijima’s hand off of him and sets it at his side, pinning it to the bed.

Oikawa realizes the fan in their room had been running when it turns off and he can then hear Ushijima’s heavy breath; Ushijima’s other hand stills on Oikawa’s bicep. Oikawa waits, Ushijima’s hand warm in his own, and he leans forward, pressing and staring down his cheeks at Ushijima’s face.

“I know you can, I know you will,” Oikawa continues, his voice level and pulling at the strings in Ushijima’s expression, wanting a reaction, any reaction. “Do you remember that night in the bar, when you blew me in the bathroom? Years ago?”

“Of course,” Ushijima breathes, and Oikawa hears the splinters.

(They make his stomach twist.)

“Of course,” he repeats and reaches up with his free hand and smooths his fingertips over the tendons in Ushijima’s hand that still rests on his arm. Ushijima’s hold loosens, just a bit. “I thought about that for a long time. I thought about how quickly you dropped to your knees for me. I’ve known or a long time that you would do anything I asked, anything I wanted.”

Ushijima tilts his head to the side, just a bit, just enough for Oikawa to pink that peaks on his cheekbones.

Oikawa slowly pulls Ushijima’s hand away from his arm, each of Ushijima’s fingertips relenting individually, one by one. Oikawa feels even more intoxicated with the way Ushijima’s hand relaxes in his own, with the way Ushijima’s eyes cloud as he brings Ushijima’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. 

With the way that Ushijima doesn’t stiffen his fingers and push them into his mouth, doesn’t retaliate in any sense.

“So you’ll manage this for me,” he concludes, and sees Ushijima’s throat work again, “won’t you?”

“Yes,” Ushijima murmurs, gone.

(Oikawa holds the world for a second time in the past twelve hours.)

Ushijima’s fingers hook themselves in the bedsheets at his side and stay there, even when Oikawa strips him of the rest of his clothing. He moves only when he needs to, lifts his hips, bends his legs. Oikawa drops his pants and underwear off the side of the bed and Ushijima’s belt buckle clinks with it. Ushijima again relaxes in ways that Oikawa rarely sees.

Without his clothes, Ushijima turns to marble on the hotel bed.

The tops of his calves, the knobs of his knees, curves of his thighs, divots over his abdomen, planes of his chest, hollows of his collarbones, and the dip of his throat—all of him is smoothed in the diffused lighting, unreal, honestly, and Oikawa is torn.

He wants to trace him, to admire.

He wants to redefine him, to ruin.

Oikawa starts at Ushijima’s calves. He settles himself between Ushijima’s legs and runs his hands up the underside of Ushijima’s calves, starting at his ankle and going to his knee, coaxing his legs to bend. He then ducks and mouths over the bow of Ushijima’s calf muscle, to his shin. His other hand strokes Ushijima’s other leg, his fingers spread and working slowly over his skin, pressing and massaging. He works patiently, slowly, mouthing over Ushijima’s knee, biting occasionally, though not too hard, and then up his inner thigh. He’s flushed as well, his cheeks warm, and he only turns his attention to Ushijima’s other leg when, from the corner of his eye, he sees Ushijima’s chest move quicker with his breathing. 

Ushijima’s leg twitches when he presses his thumb to the soft skin under his knee; Ushijima’s breath hitches whenever Oikawa sucks on the inside of his thigh.

“This feels familiar,” Ushijima murmurs, distracted, when Oikawa reaches his hips. Oikawa follows Ushijima’s hip bone with his mouth, his fingers spread and smoothing over his skin, directing their attention towards anything except Ushijima’s cock. 

Oikawa kisses the divot of Ushijima’s hip and looks up, staring up his body. Ushijima’s lashes cast shadows over his eyes so Oikawa can’t see them, but he can feel his gaze. 

He presses his thumb into the hollow of Ushijima’s other hip bone and then wraps his fingers around Ushijima’s hip, holding tightly. “Because you’ve done this to me?” he asks, his voice rougher than he’d like.

“Yeah.”

“This is different,” Oikawa says quietly and lifts his head, tracing his free hand inward, towards Ushijima’s stomach. Ushijima arches, pushes his hips up slightly when he traces over his pelvis, but never touches him where he wants most. Ushijima breathes in deeply and out, shuddering. 

Oikawa ducks his head again and mouths across Ushijima’s stomach, then bites along the bumps at his ribcage. His fingers continue to tease, sometimes grazing Ushijima’s abdomen with his fingernails. “I’m going to be meticulous,” he murmurs, breath falling hot onto Ushijima’s skin. “You’re relentless and don’t waste any time. I’m going take you apart slowly.”

Ushijima’s hands tighten their hold in the bedsheets. He grunts softly when Oikawa kisses to his nipple and sucks on it, his back bowing. He tenses all over, wanting, and Oikawa feels it beneath him, feels his muscles go taut.

“And then I’ll fuck you,” Oikawa adds and lifts his head again, finding Ushijima’s expression contrasting and slackened, the line of his mouth loose and his brow uncreased. His eyes are hooded as he stares up at Oikawa and Ushijima’s hand finds the back of Oikawa’s neck, pulls him down for a hot and demanding kiss that Oikawa can’t deny, not at first. He moans, digs his nails into Ushijima’s hip, and kisses him with equal fervor, wanting. 

Oikawa doesn’t let it last long, however; Ushijima bites his lower lip and Oikawa retracts his hand from Ushijima’s stomach and reaches up, grips Ushijima’s hand on his neck tightly. “Fuck,” he breathes, hoarse, and pulls Ushijima’s hand away from him to pin it to the bed beside Ushijima’s head. “I should have known—you get so hot when I talk to you like that.”

He lifts his head to break the kiss, his lips wet, and they both take a moment to breathe. He can feel the warmth of Ushijima’s breath across his mouth.

Oikawa realizes then that he is still fully dressed while Ushijima is beneath him, naked. 

(He feels even more intoxicated than before.)

Ushijima’s hand tightens into a fist, but loosens when Oikawa moves his hand up his wrist, and then opens so that Oikawa can slip his fingers between his. Oikawa listens to Ushijima’s elevated breathing and Ushijima’s hand clamps around his own. He squeezes Ushijima’s hand, presses it more firmly to the bed, and ducks again.

He mouths and bites over Ushijima’s throat, breathing in his cologne as he does. He feels Ushijima’s groan through his skin, feels the strain of his muscles when Ushijima tilts his head back and arches. He grows feverish with Ushijima all around him, with how close he can hear his breathing and the sounds that barely pass from his mouth. He spreads his legs a bit more and the bed sheets bunch around his knees; Ushijima gasps when Oikawa rocks his hips, rubs the crotch of his pants against Ushijima’s erection.

Oikawa understands then why Ushijima grows so impatient.

It would be so easy to let go right now, to grind against Ushijima until he trembled and couldn’t help but hold onto Oikawa, to make sure that he wouldn’t stop. He would love to—he’d love to ruin Ushijima now, in a matter of seconds. 

But then Oikawa lifts his hips, an abrupt motion that leaves even him dizzy, and Ushijima gasps, tenses, _groans_ —and Oikawa knows that the wait will be worth it.

Ushijima arches, pushes off of the bed, and Oikawa releases one of his wrists to hold him down with a hand on his chest. Ushijima’s breathing quiets almost immediately, deepens and slows, until Oikawa can feel the rapid beat of his heart through his chest. There are marks on Ushijima’s throat, some dark and like voids in the moonlight-ing, some thin and like smoke. Oikawa licks his lips, loses himself in them briefly, before he looks at Ushijima’s face and nearly loses himself entirely.

Ushijima stares at him like he put the very breath in his lungs. 

His eyelids are still low and his gaze is relaxed, but entirely focused—so devoted and comfortable with the way that Oikawa is holding him, treating him. 

Oikawa slides his hand up Ushijima’s chest, over his collarbone. 

His hand fits the shape of Ushijima’s throat and Ushijima’s breathing levels further, blends into the quiet around them.

(The pound of Oikawa’s heart in his ears matches the quick beat of Ushijima’s pulse beneath his fingertips.)

Ushijima’s eyes close and they suspend, and Oikawa has been with Ushijima enough times to know that this is it, this is their peak before they fall, everything up until now has been build-up, and this. This is where it really begins.

He had plans to string Ushijima out for longer than this. But Ushijima’s head tips back, just enough, his jaw slackens and he surrenders.

Oikawa moves off of Ushijima in a quick moment, his grasp on his throat tightening before disappearing. He catches the hitches in Ushijima’s breathing—the first comes when Oikawa chokes him, and then the second comes after Oikawa has moved away, when he grips his sides and turns him over onto his stomach. Ushijima’s back looks like a landscape in the night’s shadows and highlights, and Oikawa takes a moment to feel over it, his fingers following the dips and hills that line the deep slope of Ushijima’s spine. Ushijima’s shoulder blades protrude as he rolls them and moans, looking at Oikawa from over his shoulder. His bangs are out of place, swept sideways and hanging close to his eyes. 

When Oikawa’s hands reach Ushijima’s hips, he leans over, molds himself against the curve of Ushijima’s back, and starts to bite more bruises into his skin. He starts at Ushijima’s hair line, his hips fit against Ushijima’s ass, teasing them both with the cloth of his pants still between them. Oikawa feels the muscles in Ushijima’s back shift when Ushijima turns his head forward and moans into the bed sheets.

Through his clothes, Oikawa can feel the heat radiating from Ushijima’s skin.

He kisses to Ushijima’s shoulder blades and bites where he can, some sharper than others—the sharp bites make Ushijima tense and jump while the others keep him wound tight, and it doesn’t take long before Oikawa makes him tremble. Ushijima grows restless by the time Oikawa kisses all the way down to his lower back. He tightens a bruising grip on Ushijima’s hips, holding him still as he bites a row of meticulous marks at the base of his spine. Oikawa goes dizzier when Ushijima’s panting fills the room, and he stares up Ushijima’s back to watch the way the shadows shift and rearrange over his skin.

One of Oikawa’s hands slides leisurely from Ushijima’s hip, over his abdomen, and towards his cock—Ushijima goes silent with anticipation.

But then Oikawa is gone again, forcing himself from Ushijima and off of the bed.

He tingles and watches the aftermath, watches as Ushijima gasps and shudders, his hips pushing forward like Oikawa’s hand is still there. A molasses moan pours from his mouth and his black eyes meet Oikawa’s sideways.

Oikawa swallows hard, still warm in his clothes, and slips out of his jacket. He can’t help it; he leans forward, braces himself with one hand on the bed and uses the other to lift Ushijima’s head by the jaw. He presses a firm kiss to Ushijima’s lips, lingering before he turns to find the lube.

(His chest swells when Ushijima doesn’t try to touch him.)

Oikawa finds the bottle of lube in the rumpled sheets of Ushijima’s bed, and he rips a condom from the roll in his bag. With both of them in his hand, he kneels on the bed, again between Ushijima’s legs.

And Ushijima does this on purpose—he raises himself to his full height while on his hands and knees and arches, tips his head back and _arches_. He sighs softly into the darkness and Oikawa stares at the bend of his spine, the honest to god valley that he creates in the curve of his back.

After a long moment, he grabs Ushijima’s hip tightly.

“Don’t move,” he breathes and drops the condom, using his thumb to open the bottle of lube. Ushijima listens—he holds still, even when Oikawa repeats himself. “Don’t move,” he murmurs and releases Ushijima’s hip, pouring the lube into his hand.

Ushijima gasps when Oikawa slips a wet finger into him, but he still doesn’t move. 

Oikawa leans forward and fits his free hand in the deep bow of Ushijima’s back. He leans further forward, bending himself over Ushijima just a bit more, so that he can better hear Ushijima’s reactions. He twists his finger inside of Ushijima and moves it out, in, slowly, until each drag of his finger pulls heavy breaths from Ushijima’s mouth, until Oikawa can predict Ushijima’s breathing based on how he moves his finger. He bites his lower lip, his skin flushed and warm over his cheeks, down his throat, and he plays Ushijima like an instrument, until Ushijima breathes a heavy, “Oikawa.”

“Don’t move,” Oikawa reminds him, his voice weaker than he’d like.

“I won’t,” Ushijima promises, though Oikawa can feel him tense and shake, growing restless, so he twists his finger and slips a second into him. Ushijima groans, long and low.

“I like you like this,” Oikawa tells him quietly.

He kisses between Ushijima’s shoulder blades before he shifts backwards again, crouching to mouth the inside of Ushijima’s thigh. Ushijima twitches but doesn’t break posture; instead his breathing quickens and thickens, and he moans again when Oikawa slowly spreads his fingers inside of him. He runs his free hand up Ushijima’s other flank, fingertips moving over the bruises that he’s already planted there.

“It’s a good thing practice is done for a couple weeks,” Oikawa murmurs against the soft skin of Ushijima’s thigh. He curls his fingers deep in Ushijima and draws a shudder from him. “Would your shorts be long enough to hide these marks?”

“No,” Ushijima answers from elsewhere.

“No,” Oikawa agrees softly and begins to move his fingers in and out of Ushijima, pressing them in deep when he can. He feels even warmer with the idea of Ushijima’s thighs decorated in bruises that blossom like flowers, growing and changing over time, and Oikawa doesn’t want to wait days to see what they’ll become. He bites a particularly dark mark into Ushijima’s skin, high on his thigh, and is rewarded with a choked moan.

“You can move,” Oikawa says, gentler as he straightens again and spreads his fingers inside of Ushijima. “You need to relax.”

Ushijima slowly caves. The arch of his back loosens and his elbows bend beneath him until he’s pressed his forehead to the bed. Oikawa feels it immediately—Ushijima relaxes around his fingers and it makes Oikawa’s cock twitch.

“How long have you wanted this?” he asks, voice level as he works Ushijima open. “Me fucking you.”

“Months,” Ushijima murmurs to the sheets. “Maybe a year, at least when I really thought about it.”

“Do you get off to it?”

Ushijima shudders, and it takes him a moment to respond. Oikawa twists his fingers and coaxes out of him a “Yes,” as soft as the light that lays like fog over his skin. 

Water begins to run through the pipes above.

“It’s kind of funny,” Oikawa mumbles, warm and again aware of his intoxication—or maybe it’s only his arousal now. He’s cloudy-headed and fixated on the way Ushijima reacts beneath him, distracted from the way his clothes, which fit only hours ago, now feel too small.

“What?” Ushijima breathes when Oikawa doesn’t continue.

“It’s kind of funny,” Oikawa starts again and scissors his fingers wide, “people are afraid of you. People work for months, years, to face you. Your face is in magazines, everyone knows your name, you’re all people talk about—and I’ve turned you into this.”

Oikawa had thought briefly on this, but saying it out loud brings truth to the words, makes them undeniable and the tangibility of them—

It turns hot and deep inside of Oikawa, an insatiable want that makes him dizzy and he fits his fingers inside of Ushijima to his knuckles, impatience rising inside of him. 

Ushijima spreads his legs a bit wider and his shoulder blades rise again, casting the darkest shadows over his skin. Above them, the water stops running.

Ushijima props himself up on his forearms and turns his head to look at Oikawa from the corner of his eye again. The nightlight traces the straight line of his nose, the curve of his parted lips, and there is nothing in Ushijima’s face that disagrees with what Oikawa says.

“Come on,” he breathes, voice soft and undone.

Oikawa twists his fingers, fits a third inside. When he has his fingers hooked in Ushijima, he straddles one of Ushijima’s legs, leans over him and grips his jaw to force Ushijima’s head into a sharper turn. Ushijima’s breath hitches and Oikawa swallows it, kissing Ushijima hard. His thumb presses firmly to the hollow of his cheek, and he can feel the shape of Ushijima’s teeth. Ushijima trembles more noticeably with the strain of the position and his heavy breathing falls into Oikawa’s mouth and Oikawa begins to sweat in his clothing. He keeps his hold tight on Ushijima’s jaw and uses his other hand to stretch him—he feels feverish, wanting so badly that his fingertips are starry.

“Come on,” Ushijima murmurs again not too much later, his voice in shards, and Oikawa likes the way it feels on his mouth.

Oikawa spreads his fingers across Ushijima’s cheek and breaks their kiss just enough to fit his thumb between their lips. He slips it into Ushijima’s mouth, hooks it over Ushijima’s bottom teeth, and jerks his head down again. Ushijima’s lips fit around his thumb and Oikawa’s heart pounds with the way that Ushijima sucks on his finger, craving, the way that he moans against it. Oikawa presses the tenderest of kisses to Ushijima’s temple and murmurs, “You’re lucky I’m getting impatient, too.”

Oikawa is gone again, all contact with Ushijima severed, his fingers cooling and wet with the left over lube, and he feels as if he’s broken the surface of a different world, as if he’s been underwater and tore himself from it. With distance between himself and Ushijima, he’s aware of his wired nerves, the way they run currents over every inch of his skin, and he strips out of his shirt easily, tossing it off of the edge of the bed. He blinks and sees Ushijima staring at him again, watching him in a shadow from over his shoulder.

When Oikawa slips out of his pants, Ushijima turns over, sits gingerly on the bed and spreads his legs.

Oikawa is about to protest, to order Ushijima back onto his hands and knees, but then Ushijima parts his lips and tilts his head back, shows him the white expanse of his throat.

And Oikawa’s skin flushes from his cheeks to his chest.

He wastes no more time in slipping out of his underwear and kicking it from the bed, no time in tearing into the condom and rolling it on. As he lathers his cock with the lube, he shudders and moans and sees the way that Ushijima leans forward, as if he’s going to touch, but then thinks twice.

Before Oikawa pushes into Ushijima, he fits one hand beneath his knee and strokes, thumbs over the soft skin there, until Ushijima’s toes curl and his jaw tenses, until he lies back a bit more and arches, until he breathes a rough, “Oikawa.”

Oikawa takes hold of Ushijima’s throat with one hand and uses the other to help guide himself into Ushijima.

(They tilt.)

When Oikawa fits entirely into Ushijima, he breathes a heavy, “Don’t touch me.”

Ushijima groans and bends his legs around Oikawa, pressing his knees to Oikawa’s hips as he grasps at the sheets, looking for something with which to anchor himself. Oikawa can feel the tremors that shake him, but the look on his face is as diffused as the lighting. The crescents of his closed eyes are soft, his brow is eased, the small gape of his mouth is slack and easy and Oikawa stares, his hand sincere and promising across Ushijima’s throat. 

Oikawa rocks his hips and begins to fuck Ushijima in slow, long motions at first, building a rhythm that rises with the heat inside of him. He spreads his free hand across Ushijima’s chest and presses, holding him down, and he can feel the sweat that beads across Ushijima’s skin, that catches the moonlight when Ushijima moves just the right away. 

Ushijima’s eyes open, just barely, just enough to look at Oikawa, and they’re dark and bottomless and Oikawa plunges into them, wills himself to get lost in them.

Oikawa’s pace quickens and their hips smack together in the still room. Sweat blooms along all of Oikawa soon enough, holding his bangs in pieces to his forehead, and he tightens his hold on Ushijima’s throat. The heavy rhythm of Ushijima’s panting falters, a liquid moan falls from his lips, and he closes his eyes again, tighter, spider webs of wrinkles gathering in their corners.

It doesn’t take long for Ushijima to grow restless, for him to begin to buck more than move his hips with Oikawa’s, for him to pull incessantly, pointedly, at the sheets. Oikawa keeps him down with the pressure on his throat and the hand on his chest, and he keeps his gaze fixed on Ushijima’s face but hardly sees it. He’s focused on the hot and rough breathing that clouds from Ushijima’s lips, on the radiating heat of Ushijima beneath him, around him, on the soft skin of Ushijima’s throat in his hand, how his skin molds so easily to the shape of his fingers.

Soft moans begin to pass on each of Ushijima’s breaths and Oikawa slides his hand up Ushijima’s throat to his jaw, pushes his head back. Ushijima gasps, his chest swelling with the sudden intake of air, and Oikawa ducks, works his teeth across the landscape of Ushijima’s throat. The smell of Ushijima’s cologne and his sweat is so familiar and more intoxicating than any drink that Oikawa has had tonight, and he shudders when he breathes it in. Ushijima trembles more noticeably as Oikawa bites bruises into the curve of his throat, and he breaks Oikawa’s rule when he fists his fingers in Oikawa’s hair, but Oikawa doesn’t care. He groans, the sound pooling across Ushijima’s skin, and continues, finding it more and more difficult to breathe, to concentrate on anything.

The bed begins to creak beneath them. 

Ushijima’s fingers pull and twist in Oikawa’s hair and Oikawa moans, encouraging, and Ushijima’s fingers pull harder.

(Oikawa does not stop biting until Ushijima’s throat is purple, until there are bruises darker than the shadows over his skin.)

When Oikawa lifts himself, Ushijima just drags him back down into a kiss that is hard and full of teeth, and Oikawa goes dizzy with how he can barely manage to breathe. 

One of his hands pushes into Ushijima’s hair and fists it tightly. His other hand fits around Ushijima’s throat again, and squeezes until Ushijima’s breathing stops, until Ushijima’s mouth gapes against his own, but nothing comes out.

It’s at that moment that he finds Ushijima’s prostate, that Ushijima jolts around him, and comes. 

A fraction of a second later, Oikawa releases his throat, and the sound that pours from Ushijima’s lips is loud and broken and primal, unlike anything that Oikawa has heard.

(He comes soon after, with Ushijima tight around him and his hands curled beneath the back of Ushijima’s knees, holding his legs up.)

The red numbers on the clock read 2:34 when Oikawa crawls back into the bed; the condom is bunched at the bottom of the bathroom trashcan, and the bottle of lube is lost among their clothes on the floor.

He lies down beside Ushijima, facing him, his back to the window. He blocks most of Ushijima from the night light, but he can see the beginnings of the marks that have begun to settle up Ushijima’s neck. Oikawa reaches up and thumbs over them, feels the cooling sweat on Ushijima’s skin and his slowing pulse beneath.

Ushijima’s hand rests on his hip, its weight firm and promising, and Oikawa can’t quite make out the way that Ushijima is watching him, but he knows that he is.

“So now what?” Ushijima asks after minutes, maybe hours, and his voice is barely there, trying again to match the silence around them.

Oikawa pulls himself from the lazy and thin stupor into which he had drifted.

“What?” he asks quietly. His hand rests against the bedsheets between them, but his fingertips are still propped gently against Ushijima’s throat. “What now?”

“Yeah.”

Oikawa pauses for a moment. “Sleep?” He no longer feels intoxicated.

“No, not that,” Ushijima murmurs and his hand inches up Oikawa’s side, going slowly over the bumps of his ribs. “You’ve dreamt so long of winning nationals. And now you’ve done that. So what’s next?”

Oikawa is quiet for a long moment, allowing the rest of him to waken for this question. He waits patiently as Ushijima’s calloused fingers follow a detour across his chest, up his sternum, to his collarbone. He tries to find Ushijima’s gaze in the darkness, but cannot.

Then he finally answers, without any doubt, “The world.”

(The red numbers of the clock tell them that it’s 4:02 when Ushijima fits his shoulders beneath Oikawa’s thighs and swallows his cock.)

The collar of Ushijima’s sweatshirt doesn’t quite hide the purpling marks on his throat. Oikawa stares at them during their trip home, while Ushijima pretends to sleep; their hands touch again when they share the airplane armrest.

In their fourth year at university, Oikawa is captain. His choice for vice-captain is obvious, but Oikawa doesn’t ask Ushijima until he absolutely needs to, until after he takes a step back from the situation and works through the still-lingering shock of how close he’s grown to Ushijima.

He asks Ushijima three years to the day after he first sees Ushijima at the bar. He doesn’t plan to ask Ushijima then—the day feels weird to him, like it belongs in a different timeline, almost like it’s not his own. And _he_ feels weird, like he should still be caught in years ago, when he was sinking within himself, struggling with his self-esteem and desire for closure. He doesn’t plan to ask to take the position of his vice-captain, but Ushijima forces his hand.

“Who’s your vice-captain?” Ushijima asks, during the season kick-of party. It’s at Oikawa’s apartment this time (captain hosts), and Oikawa blinks, draws himself from his thoughts and finds that he has been standing in his empty kitchen, staring at the several alcohol bottles that line his counter. His fingers are spread across the wooden countertop. 

He turns his head and pretends that he doesn’t feel as if Ushijima has woken him from a deep sleep.

(He notices then that Ushijima has left him alone for most of the night—realizes then how red Ushijima’s lips look in his bright kitchen lighting, and how Ushijima’s shirt collar sits loose around his neck.)

Distantly, Oikawa can hear the voices and music and clinking drink glasses of the party in the living room, but the kitchen belongs to only the two of them.

He laughs. “Have you been dying to know?” he asks—he’s five drinks down, but feels none of them. He notices belatedly that Ushijima has rested a hand on top of his own, his knuckles filling the spaces between Ushijima’s fingertips.

Ushijima watches him with dark eyes, his bangs framing them and resting just beneath his brow. “A little,” he admits quietly and smooths his fingertips up Oikawa’s hand until they fall into the gaps between Oikawa’s fingers and tangle with them. 

It feels more comfortable than Oikawa wants to admit.

(It makes his heart skip a beat, as much as he wishes it didn’t.)

It’s been nine months since Iwaizumi asked him what Ushijima means to him. 

“I think my answer is obvious,” Oikawa murmurs, leaning forward automatically, into the small space between them. He likes how Ushijima watches him with his undivided attention, with utter disregard for the world around them, and without any concern what someone could walk in and see them like this. Oikawa can’t really care, either—with Ushijima so close, every part of him feels magnetized, a pole drawn to its opposite.

“I’ve learned not to assume things with you,” Ushijima says quietly, and Oikawa laughs softer this time, unable to help it.

“Smart,” he says.

When he doesn’t continue, Ushijima reaches up with his free hand to frame his jaw, far more gentle than their usual spontaneous and greedy touches. Oikawa tilts his head into it, fits his jaw in Ushijima’s fingers. He closes his eyes, relaxed, settled. The moment between them quiets the commotion of the party.

“Will you let me be your vice-captain?”

Ushijima’s words fall close, and his breath ghosts across Oikawa’s mouth.

Oikawa is silent for a long moment; he carefully curls his fingers around Ushijima’s. 

He breathes a “Yeah,” and Ushijima kisses him, slow and deep, patient but wanting, and it floods Oikawa, raises the blood to his cheeks. It’s different than he’s used to with Ushijima, but no less intimate, and Oikawa doesn’t want to admit how weak his knees feel.

Ushijima fits himself against Oikawa. Oikawa’s lower back presses against the countertop and Ushijima slips a leg between Oikawa’s thighs as they kiss, still just as slow, still just as warm, and the blush on Oikawa’s cheeks spreads. 

(Oikawa forgets about the rest of the party; they spend a good hour in his bedroom, and Oikawa’s shoulders are red with rug burn for the next three days.)

In their fourth year at university, they are defending champions at nationals, the ones who turn heads, the ones with the most whispers behind their names. They make it to the final day of the tournament, and Oikawa lingers in the doorway of their hotel room at 6:00 that morning, like the year before. The morning feels just as he remembers, like an end and a beginning, but their room is different. Their beds line the opposite wall, their windowsill is empty of drinks, and the contents of the desk are scattered on the floor, still there from last night when Ushijima bent Oikawa over the desktop and sat in the chair behind him. Oikawa takes a moment to stare at it all, to dwell within its stillness for a moment longer.

(Before they left for nationals, their coach informed them that Olympic scouts would be in attendance.)

Ushijima loiters with him, closer than he did a year ago. He waits patiently, dressed in his warm-up outfit and with his jacket zipped high on his throat. He watches Oikawa, apparently uninterested in their hotel room, and reaches out after a couple of minutes to thread his fingers between Oikawa’s. It’s easy for Oikawa to accept them, and he thumbs over the rough texture of the bandage wound around Ushijima’s index finger.

He leaves the hotel room and knows that he will return to it different than he is now.

He leaves the hotel room and Ushijima is at his side, matching his stride, keeping his heart beat steady.

(He leaves the hotel room and zips his jacket up past his collar, hiding for now the thinning bruise that Ushijima left on his throat two nights ago.)


End file.
